


to weave a ribbon of grass

by shatou



Category: Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - All Media Types, Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/F, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 13:02:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21036668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatou/pseuds/shatou
Summary: "I never thought I’d see you someday. You’re prettier than I imagined. M’lady.” She grins, toys with one ragged end of the faded crimson satchel wrapped around her waist. “I knew some of the songs for you.Gold of hair the lady fair, blue of eyes she knows no lies—”“Enough.” Lys frowns.





	to weave a ribbon of grass

  
“M’lady,” the gypsy says and gives a high bow, and Lys could have sworn she sees her smirk. What a dirty, sleazy Bohemian, all bare shoulders and easy smiles. Green eyes twinkle at her. Lys has to decide that they are mocking her and that she still hates the wench.  
  
She tugs the heavy roughspun cloak tighter around her, like it would mend her ruined guise. Lys has worn her plainest shift underneath. “No, you’ve got it wrong. I’m, I’m not any lady,” she struggles. “I’m just...”  
  
“Lady Fleur-de-Lys. Aren’t you?” Esmeralda simply blinks at her, eyes wide with an innocence that must surely be feigned. Lys scowls when she finds herself distracted by the thick, dark lashes. How they flutter… She clears her voice and pushes her shoulders back, her chest forward. _Chin up, Fleurette_, like her old tutoress used to say.  
  
Lys has always hated that childish, childish name.  
  
“What gave it away?” She doesn’t move even as the gypsy scuttles back and makes space in the dingy little tent. It smells disgusting. There are bits and pieces of cheap jewelry strewn about, and a tambourine, and ragged cloths. A tiny goat lays sleeping in the far corner, next to a large canvas bag.  
  
Esmeralda has the laughter of a little boy. “_Gave it away_? Why, did you really try to— Forgive me, m’lady, I’m not mocking you.”  
  
_Oh, but you clearly are, you harlot!_  
  
“I thought you were just… I thought the Lady Fleur-de-Lys was just paying me a visit.” The gypsy smiles, a little shyly, if gypsies can be shy. She is being coy, Lys thinks. Playing the bashful virgin, that must have been how she lured dear Phoebus into her den. Lys is not going to make the same mistake.  
  
“So you have been anticipating me,” Lys retorts. The gypsy has the gall to look surprised, shaking her head profusely. “Oh no no, not at all! I just guessed, m’lady. They sing of you in the street, you know? I never thought I’d see you someday. You’re prettier than I imagined. M’lady.” She grins, toys with one ragged end of the faded crimson satchel wrapped around her waist. “I knew some of the songs for you. _Gold of hair the lady fair, blue of eyes she knows no lies_—”  
  
“Enough.” Lys frowns. The bawdy ditties are anything but flattering. _Fleurette_, she thinks to herself in her tutoress’ voice, to prime herself with contempt. Then she thinks of Phoebus that day, of his mouth on Esmeralda’s, until she’s properly enraged. “Then you must have heard of my fiance, the good lord Phoebus, as well.”  
  
She steels herself with the thought that the gypsy’s face only falls because Lys is not falling for her sorcery, because Lys is confronting her and threatening her and now she’s going to do something incriminating, so that Lys can run out there and scream for help, and then the heretic shall be hanged—  
  
“But you are so young.”  
  
Lys can’t believe her ears. “What are you talking about?”  
  
“You are so young,” Esmeralda echoes in a whisper, thin brows arched into a pitying grimace. “So young to marry so soon.” The gypsy reaches towards her face. Lys staggers back, and Esmeralda seems to only just jolt awake. “M’lady, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to frighten y—”  
  
Something shatters in her. “Would you just end this farce? I saw you, I saw you with him, my Phoebus. You were disrobed.”  
  
“Phoebus...?” The gypsy gapes, from confused to aghast. “That man, is he—”  
  
“You tricked him, you witch.” Lys breathes out harsh, masks the tremble in her chest. Her maidenly dreams of a taintless love story, her devotion, her trust, her doubtless love, for Phoebus, her diamond-bright prince, gone, all gone, under the hands of this— _whore_. “You ruined everything!”  
  
She launches herself at the gypsy, clawing blindly, grabbing for hair. All she has is fistfuls of thin air and she turns, maddened, trying to find the damn witch, but she steps onto her cloak and stumbles and suddenly Fleur-de-Lys finds herself pulled flush against the gypsy’s chest. “Unhand me,” she cries. Esmeralda’s wiry arms are stronger than they look, but Lys fights, twists her arms, kicks. They tangles and tumbles. _Fleurette, you insolent child_, the words echoed from the back of her mind, voluntarily and then not, _Stop crying. You are homely as it is._ She seeks hatred from the depth of her memory and finds it, yet can’t seem to direct any venom to the wretched creature that is pinning her to the ground.  
  
“I’m sorry,” the gypsy murmurs. Lys’s heart doesn’t have the strength to fight back warmth. Esmeralda’s hold slowly slips back. Lys doesn’t move. She lets out a hideous sob when nimble fingers pry the hood of her cloak down and stroke into her hair. “I’m sorry,” Esmeralda says again, kisses her head. “I’ve wronged you, have I?”  
  
Lys can only nod.  
  
“Would m’lady want to carry out my punishment?”  
  
The gypsy’s breath is warm on her wet cheeks. Lys bites her lip and stares up as deep green eyes bear down onto her. “I don’t understand,” she confesses at last. Esmeralda’s fingers dance along her side, from hip up. Her spine tingles.  
  
Esmeralda lets out a good-natured chuckle. “Does m’lady think it’s a degrading thing that I do? Pleasuring trangers?”  
  
“...And what if I do?”  
  
Esmeralda straightens her arms, sweetly slow. The hem of her dress slips further down her shoulders. “Degrade me, then.”  
  
—  
  
The only thing between them and the hard ground is a rough carpet. This thought has long drifted to the far, far back of her head, as Lys sits trembling in the middle of her bunched up cloak, knees to her chest, loose shift hiked to her waist. She doesn’t ask herself what she is doing, or why she has let herself into the sorceress’ snare. A single candle lights the inside of the tent, casting Esmeralda’s slender shadow on the canvas. She’s pulling her back into a ribbon, Lys notes dully. Her heart races. It’s not out of fear.  
  
Esmeralda turns to her and smiles. Lys’s gaze slides onto the supple curves beneath and she turns away. Esmeralda creeps towards her like a cat, head tilted. “Are you nervous?”  
  
“No,” Lys lies. Her knees draw together. Esmeralda doesn’t seem to need another affirmation as she pries them apart and kisses her stomach.  
  
She realizes she is wet and throbbing between the legs. The pulse jerks whenever a breath teases past it, whenever Esmeralda plants a kiss dangerously close yet never on the spot. She caresses with her hands and licks her way up, hiking the shift up further and further until Lys pulls it over her head herself.  
  
Esmeralda regards her amusedly then, and takes a nipple between her lips. Lys whimpers, pushes her chest out, aching for more, but the gypsy won’t give it to her right away she is sure. That is, until Esmeralda presses a thumb to the nub between her lower lips. Lys moans, hips rolling forward with every rub. Her back feels taut as a bow and perhaps just as arched. Her thighs part wide as she desperately offers up her glistening heat.  
  
Lys catches the now-familiar twinkle in Esmeralda’s eyes before the gypsy dips down. A sudden warmth encased her swollen bud. Soft lips pillow against it, take it in a bruising kiss only to pull away, and then repeat, all over again. Lys sobs, clutching the fabric in her palms. The adroit tongue teases her open, laps up the traces of her wantonness. Esmeralda hooks Lys’s legs over bare shoulders and tips her. She kisses her maidenhood with an open mouth, wetly, hungrily, and Lys trembles and trembles and her body begs for more, and suddenly, there is nothing.  
  
Just like that, Esmeralda has pulled back. Lys whines and opens her eyes, confused, searching. Her gaze lands on the outline of high cheekbones in flickering candlelight, and the hint of upturned, swollen lips. Emerald eyes are smiling. Despite herself, Lys smiles back.  
  
A flutter of dark lashes and they are gone. One heartbeat later Esmeralda’s mouth returns to relieve her ache. Her tongue thrusts into her slit. Lys keens.  
  
The brief pause has made her tenfold as sensitive. She can barely breathe, can barely control her body. Her hips roll and buckle on their own, grinds into the pressure shamelessly. Lys moans when her throat is too parched for cries and cries when the coiling heat in her gut is too tight to bear. Did she say _please_? Did she say _more_? Did she say anything that can taint her with the degradation that is supposed to be solely Esmeralda’s?  
  
She will never know. Well, she cares not. She clenches and throws her head back and rocks her hips forth. She feels like she can take no more. She feels like she has not had anywhere near enough. Her body and her cunt match rhythm with Esmeralda’s thrusts of the tongue. She writhes and shudders, and wails, and it builds and builds until it feels so _good_ it hurts.  
  
—  
  
Esmeralda tucks a lock of blonde hair drenched in sweat behind her ears. Lys thins her mouth but keeps her eyes shut. She only stirs a little bit when the gypsy starts to hum a tune. A lullaby, so it sounds.  
  
“I wish you’d love someone who loves you,” Esmeralda says under her breath. “Lady Fleur-de-Lys.” She singsongs, punctuating each roll of the _L_ with a peck. “Lys, Lady Lys.” Kiss on the temple. Kiss on the cheekbone. “Fleur-de-Lys.” Kiss on the nose. “Fleur… Fleurette?” Kiss on the cupid’s bow, then she tilts her chin up.  
  
“M’lady.”  
  
Lys tastes herself and salty tears on the gypsy’s lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Fleur De Lys wants to see with her own eyes the dancer for which her fiancé has lost his mind.


End file.
